“Umbrella or no umbrella, put on your sunscreen,” he reminded her. “You remember what your dermatologist said.”
“Nag.” It was a cheerful accusation, and an ironic one, given his complaints about Lauren. And as if she’d read his thoughts, his mom added, “Speaking of wise decision-making, how’s it going with Lauren? You’re being kind to her, Alex, I know. Aren’t you?”
That tone could still make him squirm, even as a man in his late thirties. As could that calm, piercing, knowing gaze.
“I, uh …” He licked his lips and swiveled his chair some more. “I made sure she had everything she needed in the guesthouse?”
Dammit. That was supposed to be a confident statement, not a question freighted with guilt, but holy shit, his mother had powers.
“Hmmmm.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not a yes, Alexander Bernard Woodroe.”
“She thinks I’m funny. Mostly.” He looked somewhere into the middle distance, where he couldn’t actually see his mom’s chiding expression, then scrambled to change the subject. “Anyway, we have a charity event to attend together tomorrow, which—”
Motherfucker.
He closed his eyes briefly. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
He didn’t want to talk about the event with his mom. He couldn’t.
“What’s it for?” She didn’t sound entirely appeased, but she’d accepted the change of topic, which was unfortunate. “The environment? Or that UN global poverty initiative we talked about a while ago?”
“Something like that,” he mumbled. “Look, Mom, I should probably go. I just got a text from Lauren about, uh”—fuck, why would she be texting him?—“our apple-Danish supplies”—oh, that was terrible—“and I don’t want to keep her waiting. She’s my guest, after all. My honored guest, whom I treat with the utmost respect and courtesy at all times.”
Another unconvinced hum was her only response to that. But she let him off the hook.
“All right, sweetheart. Thanks for calling.” Her suspicious glare softened into a loving, soft smile. “I’ll talk to you soon?”
“Yes. Definitely.” It was a vow. “If you need anything at all, call me. Immediately.”
And that was a demand. A plea.
Her brow furrowed. “Alex, honey—”
No, they weren’t having this conversation. “I love you, Mom. Bye.”
He barely let her say it back before he cut their connection, all his werewolf-related peace of mind entirely absent once more.
To calm himself, he could read another fic, of course. Earlier that day, a story had appeared in the Cupid/Psyche fandom involving something called … consentacles? Whatever that was, it sounded intriguing.
Or … or …
He could do what he’d been contemplating for days now.
He opened his laptop.
As soon as Marcus had explained the idea of fanfic, Alex had felt drawn to the concept. And after reading Marcus’s stories and dozens of Cupid/Psyche fix-it fics in his spare time, he wanted to write his own.
A literary genius, he was not. But bitching to Marcus wasn’t enough anymore.
He needed an outlet. To wrestle with Cupid’s warped, regressive character arc. To express how redemptive Cupid’s story could have been in the hands of virtually anyone other than Ron and R.J. To apologize to the fandom, even in such an inadequate way, for how Cupid’s final-season relationship with Venus and Jupiter had become a glorification of abuse, and how it implied violent, manipulative relationships couldn’t be ended or escaped.
By acting out his scenes to the best of his abilities, he’d made that message more powerful. More believable.
He should have quit as soon as he saw the scripts for the last season, but he hadn’t. The shame of that burned like bile in his throat.
His fanfiction would serve as therapy and penance both.
And as long as he was writing fanfic, he might as well include pegging. He wanted some damn kudos, and dildos the width of a lover’s forearm were apparently the best way—other than actual writing skill—to gain an audience.
For his AO3 account, he chose the screen name CupidUnleashed. Chortling with glee the entire time, he selected all the most popular tags for his fic: Porn Without Plot. Smuttity Smut Smut. Half-Human Disaster Cupid. Bottoms Up. The Peg That Was Promised.
On the verge of designating Cupid/Psyche as the relationship, he paused.
Asha portrayed Psyche on-screen, and she was his friend and colleague. He didn’t want to involve her, even tangentially, in a story about the character he played having sex with hers, because that would be fucking creepy.